Gil

by Darin Gibby

  “You okay, Gil?”

  Gil rested his hands on his thighs and arched his back. It was enough to loosen his muscles and let air rush into his lungs. He sucked in a few more breaths. “Felt like I got the wind knocked out of me,” Gil said.

  Preacher looked into Gil’s eyes. His pupils were dilated, and the veins over his temples were bulging. “I think it’s time to call it a day.”

  “I’m okay,” Gil said, straightening up. “Just two more batters.”

  Preacher called for a change-up, an off-speed pitch to give Gil a breather. The batter grounded it to Slider, who tossed it to Biondi at first base for the out.

  The third batter Gil faced was famous for locking in on anything off speed, favoring curveballs. Preacher called for a fastball, and Gil whipped it in with his might. Preacher watched as Gil came out of his stance, lifted his chin, and paused. It was a few more seconds before Gil began to breathe. Preacher held the ball in his glove, giving Gil a chance to recover.

  Preacher hated to call for another fastball, but he did it anyway. The batter swung and missed. This time, Gil pounded his chest then sucked in another breath.

  “He okay?” the umpire said.

  “Yeah, bad case of heartburn. He ate a bad burger for lunch.”

  Gil’s hands were on his hips, waiting for Preacher to return the ball. Preacher didn’t dare signal for a curveball, so he ordered up another fastball. Gil delivered and the inning was over with the batter’s bat still on his shoulder.

  “What happened out there?” Preacher asked as soon as they disappeared into the dugout. His glove was over his mouth, blocking the cameras.

  Gil shook his head. “I dunno. Scared me to death, though.”

  Ratcliff called up a pinch hitter for Gil, signaling to the Yankees that Gil was done for the evening. The batter managed a walk, and Slider cranked a triple, giving the Rockies a three-run lead.

  Tajima raced onto the field at the top of the eighth. His awkward, lanky delivery was spot-on. It was his best showing of the season. He kept the Yankees scoreless, and last year’s worst team in the league now had a two-to-one lead in the only series that mattered.

  The entire state of Colorado was ecstatic when the Rockies won game four with Melendez on the mound and took a two-game lead. Game five stayed in the Empire State, while Gil, under Dr. Kusha’s orders, flew back early to Colorado. His condition failed to improve.

  The celebrations back in Colorado were short lived. With Gil unavailable to pitch, Ratcliff was forced to start Sewell, the rookie. As in the league championship series, everyone knew the outcome even before the first pitch. The Rockies packed their bags and flew back to Colorado with a three to two game lead, still needing a single win to take the Series.

  49

  ON THE DAY his team was flying back from New York to finish the series, Keri planned a quiet dinner at home. It would be Gil’s favorite: steaks on the grill, with corn on the cob and a fresh fruit platter. Peck and Gil’s parents joined them, trying their best to keep Gil remaining calm, now that the series was so close. Everyone present felt the pressure that was crushing Gil.

  Keri sent the men outside to man the grill. Jostling an armful of plates, silverware, and plastic glasses, Keri pushed her way out the door and onto the patio. Smoke was billowing from the barbecue grill. “Quit chewing the fat and put out the flames,” she said through the smog.

  Peck saved the T-bones from desiccation and toted them to the outdoor table, and Gil rounded up Austin and Alicia.

  “You know,” Peck said, after sitting down, “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed getting to know all the players’ wives this season. Feels like it’s been one long reality show, and I don’t want it to end. I mean, all the drama with Trista when you started pitching better than Melendez, and Rosie’s meltdown after DeJesus blew out his elbow, me having to judge hair styles, and plastic surgery—”

  Keri held up her hand. “Not today, Peck.”

  “Right,” he said, and an awkward silence followed.

  The phone rang, and Austin bolted out of his seat. “It’s Ratcliff,” he yelled through the screen door.

  Gil took the call inside.

  “So how are you feeling?” Ratcliff said.

  Gil knew Ratcliff needed an answer about whether he could pitch. He needed to announce tomorrow’s starter. The door cracked, and Keri slipped inside and held her ear up against the phone. The door banged. Trailing Alicia and Peck, Austin had let the door clap shut behind him.

  “I want to win it all tomorrow,” Gil said, “but my shoulder muscles won’t loosen up. I think Keri’s fingers have arthritis from all the massages she’s given me.” He winked at his wife. “How’s Melendez?”

  “Itching to get the start tomorrow.”

  He studied Keri’s face, the worry in her eyes. His father too, was intently focused on Keri’s reaction. “As much as I hate to let Melendez get on that mound tomorrow, I’m afraid I need more rest. With how he’s pitching, I think the Rockies are going to win it all tomorrow night.”

  Austin rushed over. “Are you sure you can’t pitch? Why don’t you wait until tomorrow and try again? Come on, go to bed right now. I’ll wake you up when it’s time.”

  Gil put his arm around his son’s shoulder. “You mother’s right, Austin. I need another day off. And don’t you dare pray that Melendez will lose tomorrow night.”

  Austin looked up and frowned, the corners of his mouth drooped deeply. “I hope they lose, because you deserve to pitch the final game. And you don’t have to sit next to Trista Melendez and hear her brag about how her husband’s the best pitcher on the team. I can’t take it anymore.”

  Peck shrugged. “The boy’s not lying. I love that woman to death, but it’s true.”

  Melendez got the start for game six, and the Rockies lost. But it wasn’t due to Melendez. He got them to the ninth inning with a one-run lead. Tajima stood on the mound as jittery as a mouse when the lights are turned on. The pressure got to him, and he walked the first two batters, then threw a change-up that was wrapped with a bow on it. It sailed into deep center and over the fence. The Rockies managed another run in the bottom of the ninth, but it wasn’t enough. The Series was now tied at three each, with one game to go.

  “Gil’s pitching all nine tomorrow,” Connor told Ratcliff as the ball sailed over the wall. “Looks like the season’s come down to Gil. Who would have thought?”

  50

  KERI BOUNDED DOWN the hallway of their home with two dozen red roses cradled in her arms. She skipped into the bedroom, expecting to find Gil stuffing the final pieces of clothing into his gym bag.

  Instead, she discovered her husband lying on the bed, the blankets tucked beneath his chin. The lights were dimmed. The flowers slipped out of her hands, and she rushed to his side. She felt his forehead. It was cold and clammy.

  “Gil, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, just taking a quick rest. Trying to focus.”

  She smoothed his sweaty hair back. “I’m not so sure about that.” Keri glanced at the clock on the nightstand and stroked his pale cheek. “You’re late. I’ve never seen you in bed after you’ve shaved and dressed.”

  “Ah, it’s nothing, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just a little meditation. Trying not to get caught up in all the frenzy. Keeping myself mentally tough.”

  She leaned over and smoothed the hair she’d just ruffled. “The gas tank is empty, isn’t it?”

  He knew he couldn’t lie to her. And even if he did, she wouldn’t buy any of it. “I am feeling a little bushed. Pitching three games in a week and a half may be a little too much. Frankly, I’m kind of looking forward to just doing nothing for a few months.” He scooched himself up and a wave of dizziness washed over him.

  “You’re not going to break your promise to Alicia, are you?”

  He smiled. Nothing was secret between this mother and daughter. “We’ve already discussed this. This is my dream, everything I’ve ever wanted. There’s just
one more game. Life isn’t worth living if I can’t make my own music or dance my own dance.”

  “I understand, but if you can’t even make it into your truck, how are you going to pitch a World Series game?”

  He took her hands in his. “I think we should dance.”

  “I know you too well, Gil. Trying to change the subject, because you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No, I want to dance with my wife. You’ll never dance with me, so here’s our chance.” Gil flipped off the covers and fumbled on the nightstand until he found Keri’s iPod, shoved it onto the speaker, and slid his finger over the screen. “Perfect,” he said as he pushed the play button.

  The song was I Will Wait by Mumford & Sons. It was the last concert they’d attended.

  She didn’t like concerts. Enduring Gil’s gigs was all she could handle. But Gil loved them, loved the artists, their passion, the way they took him to another place. Maybe that’s what his band was all about, a way to escape, to feel something he could feel in no other way. But now he had baseball and being on the mound with the music of thousands of screaming fans. That was the same way—no it was better. That was indescribable.

  Gil grabbed Keri about the waist and began spinning her around the bedroom. Twice they crashed into the closet doors, but that didn’t stop Gil. He spun her around faster then dipped her nearly to the floor.

  “You need to save your energy, Gil. Twenty-seven outs is a lot of pitches.”

  “Just need twenty-seven throws with how I’m feeling right now.”

  She put her nose against his and rubbed it back and forth. “Remember when we used to do this?”

  “No, but I do remember the month after we were first married and went to your parents for Christmas. They put us in that tiny room with two twin beds, thinking we’d be able to sleep away from each other. We nearly crushed that rickety old bed. Not sure how we both fit on that thing for an entire night.”

  She softly kissed him. “We’ve had a good marriage. I’ve never had a single regret. Not one. And for the record, I’m glad you gave up your career for us, but now it’s time for your dream. I need to stop being selfish. I want you to pitch your heart out.”

  He gently touched her lips with his fingers, feeling their delicate lines. “No, I’m the one being selfish.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. You need to finish your dream, to make your own music, the music your band never did.” Then she took the lead and spun him around. She slipped her hand behind his back and dipped him toward the floor. His body weight was too much, and he crashed to the carpet, carrying her on top of him. For a moment he lay motionless, then gasped.

  “Gil, are you okay?”

  Slowly, a smile crept over his face, and he raised himself up and kissed her. “Never been better.”

  “That’s gross!”

  They turned in unison. Alicia and Austin were perched in the doorway, arms folded. Austin shook his head. “Save it for the bedroom.”

  “We are in the bedroom, Austin,” Keri said.

  “Oh, yeah. Then do it with the door shut.”

  “Your father has a little extra energy. We needed to take the edge off. You know, so he doesn’t throw any wild pitches.” She pushed herself up, smoothed her shirt, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “He’s going to do great tonight. The Rockies are finally going to win their first Series.”

  Alicia rolled her eyes then scowled. Gil winked at her. “But I do need to tell you all something. Just for the record. And this one stays in this room … this is my last game.”

  “But, Dad,” Austin screamed. “You’re going to be the greatest pitcher ever—the Hall of Fame, Cy Young, MVP, and all that stuff. You need to pitch more than just one season.”

  “No, I just decided. This is it, and I’m going to make it count.”

  Austin flung his arms down. His sister tried to put her arm around his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

  “Think of it, Austin. Now I can be your coach. You’ll be better than me. Like Ken Griffey Jr. or Cal Ripken Jr. The sons are always better.” Gil stood and strode over to his son, crouching to his level. He put his arm on Austin’s shoulder. “Will that be okay with you? If I’m you’re coach?”

  “Well, I guess we can talk it about it later. But I’m only okay with it if you win tonight.”

  “Good, now I’m late. You all need to come down to the field after the game for the trophy presentations. I have your passes, so you’re all set.”

  Gil kept himself loose by joking around, keeping up the same antics the players had performed all season. He paid little attention to all the fanfare surrounding a World Series game.

  ***

  The press boxes were stuffed with reporters and sports writers of all shapes and sizes. None of them could resist rehashing the bizarre season, all focused on Gil Gilbert. They bantered about whether he was on drugs, or could he really have a one-of-a-kind disease, impossible to diagnose? Some even surmised that the strike was a conspiracy to get Gil into the game. They downplayed the yellow journalism about how his pitching was marching him to his own death. “It’s like the days of Hearst and Pulitzer,” one announcer said. “The Rockies organization has found a way create a sensational story to save their ailing ball club. When it’s all over, what are we going to believe?”

  The announcer’s colleague replied, “All we know for certain is that the league has cleared him to play, but the Rockies are taking a big risk. If it turns out that Gil is using a banned substance, they could forfeit their entire season.”

  Others were more kind, saying that people should quit talking about the cause of Gil’s success and enjoy the piece of art in front of them, one they will likely never see again.

  The Yankees drudged up their own scandals, attacking the Rockies’ other players—how Manzi was a walking lawsuit, about how Trudeau was such a whiner they had to release him, and on and on. Their starting pitcher told the press he wondered whether he should refuse to pitch against Gil until Gil could prove his own legitimacy. “He’s not eating spinach to get an arm like that,” he told a live TV audience right before taking the field.

  The one game changer, everyone agreed, was the ominous weather forecast. A powerful cold front was sweeping down from Canada. The Colorado fans understood what could happen if moisture-laden clouds slipped over the Rockies at the same time the temperature plummeted. If the forecasts were accurate, they could all be driving home in a ferocious blizzard. If the game went into extra innings, things could get interesting.

  If Gil heard any of this, he didn’t let it show. By the time he closed out the top of the sixth inning, he’d thrown a perfect game. No hits, no walks and no runs. Slider had managed a single, but the Rockies also remained scoreless.

  As Gil took the field for the top of the seventh, the entire stadium was on its feet. The roar was deafening with every pitch. Most pitchers had thrown close to a hundred pitches, but Gil was at seventy. He’d completed games with over a hundred in his pitch count a half a dozen times. He knew that tonight, he could never reach the century mark.

  Walking back to the dugout, he unconsciously rubbed his chest. It was tight, and his breathing was labored. Unlike previous games, his entire core hurt, down to the bones. Even in the cool evening air, he could feel sweat trickling down his chest. Every pitch was taking more out of him. The familiar sounds of Take Me Out to the Ball Game rang through the stadium speakers during the seventh-inning stretch. Gil paused at the warning track in front of the Rockies dugout and flashed his famous smile. Leaning against the railing, he sang with them. This was his dream, and he wanted everyone to live it with him.

  Following the song, he collapsed onto the bench, and the batboy slipped Gil’s jacket over his chest. Briscoe kneeled down in front of him and lifted his hand. Placing his two fingers over Gil’s wrist, he checked his pulse. “It’s faint,” he said, shaking his head. “What were you doing up there singing?”

  “I’m okay,” Gil replied
. “Just two more innings, and it’s all over.”

  Ratcliff descended from his perch at the railing. “Gil, you’re up to bat second. We can pull you, put in a pinch hitter, and let Tajima close.”

  They all knew Tajima’s record against the Yankees. They had his number. All eyes turned to Gil.

  “Really, I’m doing fine. Let me swing away. If I can loop one in the outfield, I’ll have a chance at making first.”

  He didn’t. He took three miserable swings and was called out. Slider passed him on the field and held out his fist for Gil to knock.

  “Take it easy, Gil. Let me do the talking with my bat. I’ll get us a run, and if you get us six more outs, we’re in the history books.”

  The Yankees’ pitcher challenged Slider with a fastball, even though every serious Rockies fan knew Slider loved to jump on the first pitch. Slider smacked it, and the ball sailed into the right field corner. Slider was off to the races. He turned the corner at first with his legs spinning like the Roadrunner’s. His hat flipped off as he reached second. Ten feet in front of third, Slider did one of his famous headfirst slides, curving left to avoid the tag. The Rockies had their first-base runner in scoring position.

  Juarez confidently strode to the plate. His normal limp was gone. It was as if his bungled up knee had miraculously healed itself. Ratcliff knew better, but he also knew that Juarez didn’t need to make it to first base, he just needed to lift a fly ball far enough into the outfield for a sacrifice fly. With how fast Slider was running, a shot anywhere into the outfield would be good enough.

  The Rockies’ right fielder quickly took two strikes. Juarez battled the Yankees’ pitcher, fouling off five more pitches and taking three balls. With the count full, he lifted one into center. It was a high floater and wasn’t anywhere near the warning track. The center fielder was in shallow center when he set himself to make the catch. The moment the fielder caught the ball, Slider took off.